


how cruel

by eckarius



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Mild Gore, Sick Character, Time - Freeform, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 09:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18496279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eckarius/pseuds/eckarius
Summary: this was inspired after i rewatched the brows held high episode covering “angels in america,” and while i’m worried this isn’t good enough, i thought why not write it anyway? sorry if this is offensive or disrespectful, i don’t mean any offense with this story.





	how cruel

In the trees above, a flurry of birds burst from the branches like screeching leaves, their dark wings hitting the air harshly. They fly off into dark grey clouds, their squawks fading off like their silhouettes. And Fiore watches their bodies become black dots on the horizon, wishing he could fly away from his troubles like that. All of those birds are the same, they all move together as a unit but can break off whenever they wish, welcomed back by their colony as if they’d never disappeared at all.

He’s been away from society as a whole for three months now, his wrists rung raw and bleeding, the dark circles beneath his eyes resembling deep bruises. Fiore hasn’t left DeBlanc’s bedside, not with his paranoia that if he left for a moment, he’d slip away, and he wouldn’t have properly said goodbye.

DeBlanc pled for him to take a walk and get some fresh air, to reassure himself that his muscles hadn’t atrophied from their minimal use to bring Fiore from flat, to metro, to pavement, to clinic, and all the way back once visiting hours ended. The clinic is only a five minute walk from the park, so he sits on a bench, glancing between it and the sky. At any moment DeBlanc could die, and Fiore wouldn’t be there. The only thing he promised DeBlanc at the time of his diagnosis was that he’d always be there.

Their only revenue was Fiore’s trust fund, untouched until he quit his job to spend his time with DeBlanc in the hospital. Every cent of that trust fund went to his medical bills, their flat’s utilities, and food. Otherwise, their normal lives had ceased indefinitely.

Fiore dreams that one day Fiore will get a call from the clinic, asking him to come in immediately. He’d rush to the clinic, and find DeBlanc packed up, ready to return home, that the sickness had simply cured itself overnight. But that was pure fiction. No treatment cured him, they simply kept him around a bit longer.

The sky is rumbling, like it will start to rain soon. He’ll head back in a moment or two.

He sees a couple walking out of the corner of his eye, a man and a woman huddled under a shared umbrella. So carefree. So unaware of the plague that will never affect them. That woman will never have to quit her job because she’s worried that while she’s whiling away at her desk job, her partner is dying in a bed across the city, and she may not see his last breath. Because they would never get this disease. Because the world was not fair.

Fiore stands up, shoving his hands into his pockets. The bones in his fingers are jutting out more than usual, probably on account of ignoring the desire to eat in favour of worrying daily about DeBlanc. He walks too quickly, his legs nearly twisting together as he rushes back to the clinic.

The clinic is dark brick, with layers of spray paint clinging inside its pores. Fiore’s seen all kinds of vulgarity painted across the whole front of the building, declaring everyone inside the building as “sinners” who were getting “what they deserve.” The outlines of yesterday’s graffiti still clings to the wall like a lingering mistake. He opens the door, and is greeted by a sterile smell, cotton and rubbing alcohol. There’s lavender air freshener sprayed every now and again to cover the scent, but it dances around in Fiore’s lungs, making his empty stomach shudder.

“Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” the desk clerk smiles at him, holding out a clipboard.

Fiore signs back in, noticing he’d only left for six minutes when he checks the clock. It makes him upset that he can’t stand being away from DeBlanc for so long. It only makes him long for some kind of cure to be wheeled into the building right now, offered first to him, since he’s right there at the desk, and he can rush it to DeBlanc. They return to their normal lives, forgetting the three months they’ve been in the clinic, waiting for the days to dwindle down to none, and for DeBlanc to die.

He slinks down the hall, looking through every open door. Men are lying in beds, open wounds glistening, skin pale and clammy, their partners sitting at their sides, holding their hands, begging for them to pull through. And Fiore begged for DeBlanc to get better in the beginning, he pleaded and cried for his health, but after weeks of pleading for naught, he got over it. Now, he just keeps DeBlanc company.

Thankfully, DeBlanc’s door is open, and inside, he’s watching the telly across the room, clicking through channels. When Fiore left, he was asleep, it makes his heart briefly jump up in his chest seeing DeBlanc sitting up.

“Hello,” Fiore murmurs in the doorway, pulling his lips tight in his own tired form of a smile. DeBlanc looks to him, and his eyes sparkle.

“C’mere, dear.” DeBlanc weakly holds one hand out, an IV tube streaming down from it. He’s so skinny now, it’s more severe than Fiore’s weight loss. He went from slightly chubby and very cuddly to sharp and bony. He can barely look at old photos of him before the weight loss, it only brings back memories that make him cry.

Still, he crosses the room, grabbing DeBlanc’s hand and leaning down so he can kiss Fiore’s cheek. He places his hand over the same spot, and Fiore has to shiver back a sob.

“How was your walk?” He asks while Fiore sits down. 

“Fine,” Fiore’s voice is flat, like he’s in a trance. “It would have been better if you went.”

DeBlanc nods, his dark eyes looking up at Fiore, pleading a smile out of him. “I would have loved to go with you. You know I would have if I could have, love.”

Fiore grimaces, following the IV to the heart monitor, watching the green line spike, a steady rhythm that he matches his breathing to. Anything to distract from the lesions on DeBlanc’s arms, his pale, clammy skin, his raspy breathing. Anything to distract from the telltale signs that DeBlanc is dying.

DeBlanc places his hand on Fiore’s cheek, his fingers trembling from keeping his arm up so long without rest. “Hey, let’s talk.”

Back when DeBlanc wasn’t sick, the phrase “let’s talk” signified a brewing fight, that in no time they’d be screaming at each other and wondering why they decided to devote their lives to each other in the first place. But now, each conversation was an excuse to dwell on his voice, remember the way he said each word. He’d linger on their talks, wondering if their discussion about how stiff and scratchy the clinic’s sheets were would be their last time talking.

But, this conversation doesn’t feel as lighthearted. While DeBlanc is trying to put on a smile for him, Fiore can sense he’s just as upset about what’s going to come.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to be alone once I’m gone.” Not “if,” “once.” He can’t stand DeBlanc acknowledging that they’ll be separated in no time.

And it’s not like him to suggest something like this. DeBlanc got possessive over joke-flirting, there was no way he’d suggest that after he died, Fiore should date. “What, what do you me—no! Are you feeling alright?” He feels his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes are wide and confused, like he can’t fathom why DeBlanc would ever say this.

“I am. I just don’t want you to be grieving alone.” His hand falls down to his lap, he winces at his arm hitting some wound on his leg. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Fiore feels a pang in his stomach hearing DeBlanc say that. “I haven’t done that in years,” he trails off, locking his eyes on his hands, clasped together in his lap.

DeBlanc exhales, a raspy rattle in his chest, and he immediately regrets bringing it up. “I know, dear, I didn’t mean—” He cuts himself off, another wave of pain rushing over him. He shivers, then stops, furrowing his eyebrows. “I didn’t mean that.”

Fiore nods, and looks over at the window. Silhouettes of birds, passing through the clouds again.

“When was the last time you talked to Cassidy?” He tries to get Fiore’s eyes back on him, but he knows that if he looks back at DeBlanc, he’ll start tearing up. And Fiore promised he wouldn’t cry around DeBlanc, just in case his last memory of him was Fiore sobbing like a child.

Fiore shrugs. “I have no idea.” He doubts that Cassidy wants to see him, especially since he’s certain Cassidy could be dying, too.

“Please go find him. He called me last week, he’s worried his partner could be sick.” He grabs Fiore’s hand, and they look at each other.

His face is so soft, so gentle. Fiore remembers back when they met in uni, when DeBlanc had a full, fuzzy head of hair and he couldn’t reach his psychology books in the library. Fiore was a volunteer worker in the library, he approached DeBlanc quietly and grabbed the book, asking if that was the one he wanted.

“Yes, thank you.” DeBlanc shuffled off, brushing Fiore’s kindness off. But, Fiore immediately felt drawn to him, and kept an eye out for him the next two weeks.

Fiore scoped him out on a Friday, returning his book and leaving behind his canteen. He grabbed it quickly, and dashed out the door, gangly limbs flying everywhere. No matter how long he’s been walking, he still barely has the hang of it.

“Hey! You!” He yelled after DeBlanc, and practically plowed him down as he stopped in his tracks, turning to see the maniac running after him.

“What the hell?” He muttered, Fiore stopping with a mere inch of undisturbed space between them. DeBlanc glared at him.

Fiore held out the water bottle, a blue plastic canteen on a braided rope. “You,” he breathed heavily, “left this in the library.”

DeBlanc sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Thank you.” He grabbed the canteen from Fiore’s hand, and smiled at him. 

Fiore stared at him, then turned around, starting to walk back to the library. DeBlanc called after him, following him. “Hey, wait up!”

From there, he asked Fiore if he was a freshman, if he had any friends, if he wanted to join DeBlanc’s study group (which was just him, until Fiore joined). And they’d been inseparable since.

Fiore smiles down at DeBlanc, his eyes watering. “I’ll talk to Cassidy.” He nods as he says this, and he leans down, kissing DeBlanc’s forehead. The doctors said there was a chance he could catch it via kissing, so they hadn’t kissed in months. And some days it was hard for Fiore to not jump with joy and smash their faces together when the day prior DeBlanc had been particularly sick, and he was convinced he’d die overnight.

DeBlanc quickly pulls back, covering his mouth with his hand and coughing violently, raspy and harsh. Fiore watches, his smile from earlier already fading. He notices the heart monitor beeping rapidly, and he worries that the mere stress would explode his heart, or bring on a heart attack. Fiore always expected the worst, and he still does now. DeBlanc falls back in the bed, looking exhausted.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” he murmurs, noting the clock beside the window. 4:58 pm, in a few minutes visiting hours will be over for the day.

DeBlanc nods, almost unconsciously leaning in for a proper kiss. Fiore decides  _ what the hell? _ , and kisses him, a sensation he’d practically forgotten. There was already a very high chance he was sick too, if it sat dormant in the body for ages, it was only logical that Fiore was infected by DeBlanc long ago, and his symptoms just hadn’t started showing yet. Or he was lucky, and he hadn’t caught it somehow. He wishes that he isn’t lucky, and they’ll be together again, in a sense.

Fiore stands up from the plastic chair, saying a quiet “goodbye, I love you, goodbye,” before walking out. He pulled his jacket on, closing it over his body. He takes his lazy body from the clinic, stepping out into the city again. The sun is beginning to set. How time still goes on while Fiore is watching his closest, dearest friend die, he’s unsure. His dark flat, untouched from when DeBlanc collapsed in the kitchen, bringing Fiore to drag him to the ER, begging for a doctor to save him, is all he has left outside the clinic. He’s not sure he has Cassidy as a confidante, so he doesn’t feel that he can count him.

All because of a tainted blood transfusion. How cruel.

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired after i rewatched the brows held high episode covering “angels in america,” and while i’m worried this isn’t good enough, i thought why not write it anyway? sorry if this is offensive or disrespectful, i don’t mean any offense with this story.


End file.
